What you don't know
by MysteryPollen
Summary: What happens when two people have the same obsession?


"He could never love you, you know." He circles the man on the floor, careful not to get blood on his shoes; expensive, hand-made Italian leather after all.

"Oh, and he loves you does he? Do you think he appreciates your little games…y-your attempts to entertain him?" The man on the floor, although leaking blood from several orifices -including his mouth- irrationally tries to avoid getting blood on his suit. Today's planned attempt to kill his archenemy had not gone as planned as evidenced by his archenemy standing calmly, decidedly not bleeding.

Said archenemy stops mid-stride, a look of deep contemplation on his face. He pivots lithely on one heel, turning and looking down at the bleeding man on the floor. A smile lighting up his face.

That smile. That's what finally caused the first stirrings of fear in the man on the floor. He had never really experienced fear before. It was an unpleasant sensation to say the least.

The archenemy gave a barely perceptible nod of his head, and out of the darkness one of his 'hired hands' quietly steps forward and delivers a swift kick to the ribs. If hired hands and lackeys were considered fashion accessories, his archenemy might have been considered one of those fashionistas that "tried too hard."

More blood, more pain, more gasping for breath…this was fast becoming boring and tedious. But the bleeding man new this meeting would soon come to a head.

"You're not going to kill me. You can't. He would never forgive you, not to mention I would be missed - so to speak." He was irrationally proud he could speak without gasping for breath…or bleeding to death.

The irritating smile on his archenemies face was back - perhaps it had never left. The bleeding man on the floor admitted he might be having a little trouble focusing.

"You will be missed. That's true." His archenemy frowned, face scrunching, lips pursing as if he has just considered this idea. "If only I had an army of personnel at my disposal to stop them." His archenemy's face is suddenly blank, and stares down at him completely devoid of emotion. "If you hadn't been so busy watching Sherlock you might have retained control. You might have seen it, seen me, but alas…" He gestures to the large, empty, somehow cliché warehouse.

His archenemy suddenly claps his hands together; bring the bleeding man's attention back to his archenemy's face. "Now, I normally don't like to get my hand dirty, but for you I'm willing to make an exception." The archenemy never stops looking at the bleeding man as he says this, slowly putting on a black leather glove, proffer by one of his lackeys.

Again with the cliché, the bleeding man thinks.

A gun appears from seemingly nowhere. Despite himself, the bleeding man is impressed with the efficiency of it all. One minute he's in one of his many ubiquitous, non-describe, black cars and the next he's bleeding out on the floor of an east London warehouse.

He wonders if Sherlock will miss him. He takes comfort in the fact that Sherlock will hate his archenemy when he finds out.

"Oh, Sherlock will never know it was me. And you're wrong by the way. He wouldn't have hated me for killing you. He would have pouted and been angry that I denied him the right to do it. However, we both know, he'll delete you when his hard-drive gets too full or the next interesting case comes along. He's not one for sentiment." All this spoken as if he was delivering some slightly unpleasant news over tea.

His archenemy attaches the silencer himself, for effect the bleeding man supposes. He does love to be dramatic.

"Good-bye."

Outside, in the cold night air he hears the crackling as the warehouse behind him slowly catches fire.

"Will that be all for tonight sir"? his PA asks.

"Yes, I'll be returning to the hospital. Please phone ahead to the physician in charge and let her know that I would like an update on Sherlock and Dr. Watson when I arrive."

"Of course, sir."

As his car pulls up the driver gets out and wordlessly opens the door. Mycroft, the British government, archenemy and most importantly older brother takes a moment to look back at the flames. Satisfied he slips into his car and heads to the hospital.


End file.
